Hope, is for sissies
by SuzuranCrow23
Summary: Dr.Gregory House was the only human insane enough to actually enjoy the zombie apocalypse that the world thrust into - zombies definitely make an interesting case. And now, House could perform a legal autopsy on a moving patient.
1. Chapter 1

I've just always wondered what House would act like in the whole Walking Dead scenario - and well, here is my product of my imagination. I'm thinking it'll be a one-off thing - but i'm up for continuing it if anyone displays any interest towards it :)

* * *

><p>House stared in sick fascination at the repulsive yet enthralling sight lay out before him on the ice-cold surface in the morgue. His moronic co-workers had finally managed to capture a live specimen for him to 'experiment' on. He had been getting bored with the 'dead-er' test subjects - they just weren't as lively as the other ones bumbling around everywhere outside. Everyone left in Princeton Plainsboro Hospital hoped that he would be able to find a cure - <em>idiots<em>. House knew as soon as this 'apocalypse' began, that there was no hope of a cure. Unlike all of the Bible-preaching douche-bags, House knew that hope, is for sissies.

If the virus was man-made, anyone who created it would be long gone and eaten by now. He was just satisfying that itching urge in the back of his head - pushing him to find out what made these things so different from humans - although technically they're still mildly alive - they move and 'eat'.

'Does that make it illegal to perform an autopsy on one?' he pondered, his eyes glinting mischeviously as his hand ran over his overgrown stubble on his cheeks.

"First time for everything," he mumbled, reaching out for the scalpel lying on the tray next to him.

He'd already refused to let Chase help him out, he could still see the pout on the younger man's face alongside his annoying British accent.

"But we're still a team, House. I can help," Chase insisted, staring determinedly at him.

"I admit, there is no 'I' in team," House stated, sighing loudly in defeat, his eyes narrowed at Chase who visible let out a sigh of relief.

"But there is a 'me' if you jumble it around," he finished, he didn't bother to stare any longer at Chase's dumbfounded expression. Instead, he limped off before Chase could say anything else more stupid.

The geek/zombie/walker began struggling against the tight straining leather straps holding it down onto the shiny metal suface. Its pale dead eyes zoomed in on House, widening in starvation.

Its mouth was open, revealing the broken stumps of teeth with decaying human flesh stuck in between them. It looked as though it had bathed in blood, the red liquid trailed down its face mixing with the yellow pus forming around its wounds. House couldn't help but lean closer to stare in amazement at the zombie's body: its intestines were hanging out of its abdomen - slowly slapping off the metallic table everytime the walker snarled and attempted to move so it could chew off House's devilishly handsome face.

House merely grinned and murmured a singsong "Na-na-na-na-na," tormenting the animal - its cries were more primal than a human's and its eyes lacked the humanity that even he possessed a small amount of - not that he'd ever admit he was humane.

House ignored the dangerous growls and grunts of his test subject and began to make a long straight incision with the scalpel down from the cold grey throat to just above its intestines. House's hand was confident and quick, not even pausing when his 'patient' began thrashing around violently.

"Interesting," he murmured, his grey eyes widening and his lips pursing in concentration.

The walker didn't even look like it had felt the wound. House grinned evilly as his other hand reached for his shortened supply of vicodin. He was definitely going to enjoy this case.

* * *

><p>Review and alert :D<p> 


	2. Hypothetical Soul

Second chapter, Yay! I'm so pleased with the response I've been getting :D

I'd like to say thank you to:  
>Lorien Lupin (thank your for the correction over House's eye colour), J, TheImpossiblePen, SharonH, and LeanneDaseyLover :) And also everyone who alerted this ff, it made my day ^_^<p>

I've decided to continue this fic and slowly but surely integrate the House characters with the walking dead plot and characters. I'm thinking of doing the next chapter in Rick's Group's P.O.V. Any suggestions or improvements, I am all ears.  
>Also, any pairings anyone is interested in? I was thinking I may incorporate HouseCuddy - not sure about Walking Dead yet.

* * *

><p>House grimaced in distaste as he supressed the urge to vomit from the foul, repugnant smell emanating from the now definitely-dead zombie. Aside from learning the fact that zombie-insides turn a funny colour, and that they don't seem to stop craving human flesh - he had nothing new.<p>

He was dead-set on working out how this thing had started though. Was it airborne? Spread through contaminated water? Or was it a secret Government experiment? House's blue eyes widened at the multiple, exciting possibilities that swam before his genius mind.

Unfortunately, his genius mojo was once again interrupted by Chase, whose voice crackled through the ancient walkie-talkies that House had found in his office (he distinctly recalled playing army-men with Wilson one afternoon).

"Um, House?" Chase spoke, with a nervous edge to his voice.

"What? I'm busy!" he snapped, glaring at the walkie-talkie.

"You really need to get over here now!" Chase whispered frantically.

"If this is about your heartbroken-ness over Cameron's probable death, I'm not interested - she's your ex-wife," House reasoned, rolling his eyes exaggeratively.

"Shut-up House, and hurry up." Chase finished.

House stared at the wall momentarily, wondering if Chase was being eaten alive right now. He sniggered and made his way to the reception. He gripped his cane tightly, narrowing his cold eyes at the boarded-up windows and locked doors. Fortunately for them, they had managed to make this place into a fortress - after days of a walker-infested hospital.

Slowly, the cogs in House's brain started to turn as he recollected that day in the hospital, he could remember every precise detail - even after several shots of whiskey.

***Flashback***

"House, he's burning up. And he's close to cardiac arrest," Adams said frantically, reaching over for the dose of Adrenaline.

House merely stared, not seeing anything interesting about a fever or cardiac arrest.

Adams gestured to the young nurse standing beside the bed to hold down the patient's arm as she injected him. Neither one of them had expected the patient to bite a chunk out of the nurse's arm. Her screams were high-pitched and full of desparing anguish - chilling House's soul (his hypothetical soul, as he'd already sold his actual soul to the devil). And despite that, House stood frozen in position - not hearing the screams from the room or every other room in the hospital - only a dull ringing in his ears.

The 'patient' had taken to full chewing of the woman, biting her flesh off in quick motions and gnawing happily on the bloody strips of meat. House's heart had almost stopped when the animal's dead eye's had turned to stare at him.

***End of flashback***

House figured that it was that day, that all hope had died for him - he wasn't stupid enough to believe in a cure. Even if he did cure it, no one would return to how they were or what they did previously. The worst parts of human nature are revealed through the destruction of society - and he'd seen it all: humans killing one another for food, raping and torturing for the sheer thrill. The others couldn't believe it, but he did - every human held the genetic code to survive within themselves. Hell, even he did - he had done his fair share of skull-bashing with his cane, and even more damage with his gun - the one that Wilson had never been able to find in his apartment.

As he reached the reception, the smell of bleach hit his nose in a wave of sickening force. He almost gagged, inwardly cursing Adams - she was determined to get rid of all traces of the walkers and the dead from the hospital. It had taken Chase and Taub days to clear out all of the dead and other dead, and yet she was still scrubbing away at the dark stains that decorated every room and every hallway in the hospital.

He was pulled out of his flood of thoughts when a hand reached out and gripped a piece of his shirt, pulling him close...it was Cuddy.

Unlike Adams and Park, Cuddy had adapted rather well to the apocalypse. She had taken immediate control after it became overly obvious that the CDC and Fort Benning were overrun. She had commanded Chase, Taub, Wilson and Foreman to clear the hospital floors one by one. Slowly but surely Princeton Plainsboro became empty of all walkers.

Cuddy's clothes were crumpled and at least a couple of day's old. Her face had more creases and lines, and her blue eyes were weary. She knew as well as he did that they didn't have much time left before the walkers ran out of food and began looking for more.

"House, you need to see this," she murmured, slowly letting go of his arm - her eyes darting around everywhere but at him.

He nodded slowly, following her to the front entrance - the one they had boarded-up and barricaded with every single table on the first floor. The rest of the 'team' were there, their eyes wide and fearful. Wilson held a bat in a defensive manner alike to Park. Whereas Taub was hid behind Foreman holding onto a needle.

House stared at Taub as though he was stupid...before realising he was.

"I thought we had already established the fact that chemicals do not work on zombies," he spoke, prodding Taub in the chest with his cane; grinning viciously as Taub stepped back.

Before he could continue though, he finally heard the loud voices coming from the outside of the hospital.

"God damn it nigga, it ain't hard to open a fuckin' door," a voice shouted, heavy with a southern twang.

"I'd like to see you try it white-boy," a voice snapped back, kicking the door loudly.

The argument was escalating, until another voice joined the duo:

"We'll get the doors open okay. Daryl, T-Dog - calm down. You're making too much noise and the walkers might hear you," a man spoke with an authorative voice - 'probably used to be a cop' House guessed.

House could hear more murmurs of noise, knowing full well that the barricades wouldn't last much longer - odds were, these newcomers would kill them all if it meant more food for them.

He stared at Cuddy momentarily, wishing she didn't have to be here. Before reminding himself that she was a big girl, and could probably handle whatever came through those doors. He should be more worried about the others...like Wilson. But he wasn't.

Instead, he held up his gun, chuckling at the fact that he could finally use it on an actual living person.

* * *

><p>Okay, review and alert :D<p>

I'm going to try and stick to the walking dead storyline, although I will add in a few creative bits. I'll have to fight the temptation to just kill off Andrea and Lori - they're like my least favourite characters in Walking Dead, all they do is whine and moan about everything.

Who're your least favourite Walking Dead Characters?


	3. The Three Musketeers

It has been forever since I have updated this fanfiction - I'm so sorry, but I have been tied down by college and University applications. Hopefully, I will be able to start updating more frequently because of the holiday :)

Hope you all enjoy - review, I'd love to hear what you think.

P.S. Thank you for all of the story alerts, and reviews : D

* * *

><p>The quiet breeze of the mid-afternoon had the sickly, nauseating smell of rotting bodies lingering at a distance.<p>

The concrete streets were devoid of any movement. The tall, looming buildings were lifeless and ominous; a sign of life that was no longer available to the last of the world's population. If one was to look through the faded glass windows of the office blocks, they would find dozens of decaying corpses - once people, who had given up on living; they had merely taken the easy way out. Yet, none stirred from their sleepless slumber - they weren't possessed by the cruel vicious disease that had attacked so many others; that was able to turn even a pacifist towards unspeakable violence and rage.

The sun's rays were harsh and overbearing, as though punishing humanity for their sins.

One building in particular stood out amongst others. It was covered in thick double glazed windows, and stood higher than most other buildings surrounding it. Dark brown bricks made up most of the structure. It was a familiar sight to anyone, before the apocalypse that is. A white sign stood in front of it, thick black letters making up the words: '_Princeton Plainsboro Hospital'. _A logo was emblazoned beside it, red branches covered with leaves.

To anyone surviving the apocalypse, a hospital would clearly be a goldmine: medicine/drugs, hundreds of beds and equipment. A particular band of survivors had decided days ago after a trip to the inner city that this place would be a perfect spot to take; especially for a group with a newly impregnated woman.

However, the huge front doors of the hospital were covered in thick wooden planks and nails. Someone had obviously barricaded the hospital against an attempt to open it.

The slow, steady sounds of the wind whirling around the empty city were interrupted by harsh, fast paced _thuds_ and _bangs_.

"God damn it nigga, it ain't hard to open a fuckin' door!"

The man originated from the South that much was obvious by the twang in his accent and the racist remark. His name is Daryl Dixon, a man hardened by his past and the present. He was a relied-on member of the survivors for his hunting and skill with a crossbow - despite his distasteful background. His handsome face is hardened with frown lines and a trademark scowl; tanned after the long draining hours he had once spent in the sun with his Pa and brother hunting deer.

"I'd like to see you try it white boy,"

A heavier, African American man replied viciously to Daryl. Sweat trickled in quick streams down his skinhead - his body still unused to the thick heat that surrounded the city. T-Dog despite being an obvious ethnic-minority, and less hunting-inclined, is still a key member of the small surviving pack.

However, the man watching both stood with an obvious leadership grace and strength. His blue eyes were steeled and hardened; in a post-apocalyptic world like theirs - it was no surprise. The man is Rick Grimes, a father, a leader. His worn hands clutched his belt in an 'old habits die hard' kind of way; it was clear before the chaotic 'disease' had spread, that he surely was a cop.

"We'll get the doors open okay. Daryl, T-Dog - calm down. You're making too much noise and the walkers might hear you," Rick spoke, his clear voice carrying further into the building than he had intended.

His words must have rung true, as the other two grown men stopped their petty squabble.

Rick wondered what kind of a place Princeton Plainsboro was before the 'virus' hit. He could envision figures upon figures wearing white coats, walking around in an authoritative yet sympathising attitude. But after his brief stint at the hospital during his coma, Rick had decided he didn't really like hospitals much anymore.

All he could hear were the sounds of broken teeth meeting each other in an awkward imitation of starving dogs, and the inhuman and resoundingly terrifying grunts and groans. The empty corridors and dead bodies littering the linoleum floors still haunted his dreams; a fact that Lori, his wife was well aware of.

He didn't even tell Shane about the dreams; for a while now, it had been awkward between the two - he still felt like Shane was holding out for Lori to return to him. Rick Grimes did not like the idea of his 'best friend' still pining for his wife, and that was something he was going to have to change once he got back to camp. He had left Shane there knowing he would do anything it took to protect Lori and Carl.

Rick suddenly snapped his train of thoughts, and looked back at the situation at hand. T-Dog's and Daryl's efforts were slowly working away at the thick wooden boards - the middles were splintering and cracking in uneven places. The struggled grunts and sighs echoed, and for a brief moment Rick turned quickly to check the perimeter; a city like this was crawling with walkers, it was a miracle they hadn't come across a herd yet. Despite not being an overly religious man, Rick found himself crossing his chest in a quick manner hoping that some divine entity out there would deem them worthy of mercy. They needed this place. The rest of the group were still camped out in cars, waiting for their safe return. Rick pondered the idea of staying at the hospital. If they reinforced the windows with thick boards, and kept a close and sharp perimeter, they could last a couple of months at least - a hospital could be made into a fortress. It would give Lori enough time to give birth, and then...he didn't know what.

"Ugh. Finally!" Daryl's harsh voice reverberated through his ears.

A jarring sound was heard as the final board fell to the floor in defeat. T-Dog whooped loudly, grinning ear to ear. Rick supposed that he, like the others, was thinking of the hundreds of actual beds that littered the hospital. Rick admitted to himself that he was looking forward to spending the night on a warm, cushiony mattress.

The windows to the huge doors were dusty and unable to see through - Rick made a cautious flick of the head to Daryl and T-Dog warning them to ready their choice of weapon. For T-Dog it was a baseball bat, still covered in a foul grey matter. Daryl held his trademark crossbow, favouring long distance until he had to use his bowie knife. Rick however, still held his Colt Python, the heavy weight soothing him with its familiarity and ability to fit into his hand so perfectly.

After giving a nod to them, Rick charged forward and slammed his side into the glass door; it opened with a loud whining creak. All three men rushed to the door, not expecting to find several live humans holding an assortment of weapons at their heads.

"Well, well, well," a raspy voice mocked. It belonged to a man who seemed to be in his late forties, he walked with a cane; however that didn't seem to stop him from holding a gun to their heads. His blue eyes had a hint of interest and mischief in them; an antithesis to the other people scattered around what used to be a receptionist's area - they were full of fear and slight weariness. Rick surmised that they'd probably come across other survivors before, less welcoming ones too.

"Must be the three musketeers coming to rescue us," he drawled, directing his gun at Rick's head with a cocky smirk.

* * *

><p>Hope you all review = D<p> 


End file.
